


To Be Unmade

by Lauralot



Series: Alexander Pierce should have died slower [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Play, Also briefly mentions, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Blow Jobs, Brainwashing, Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Facials, Forced Feminization, Gore, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Infantilism, Knifeplay, M/M, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Denial, Physical Abuse, Psychological Horror, Self-Fisting, Sexual Abuse, Torture, Violence, flaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 02:55:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1924083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the asset, things only ever get worse.  The external scars fade quickly enough.  The internal ones dig deeper and deeper.</p><p>But the internal scars are called love, and doesn't that make them worth the hurt?</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be Unmade

**Author's Note:**

> In a list of things that were totally necessary in the world, a prequel to [The Knowing Makes It Worse](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1709594%20) detailing the breaking of the Soldier’s mind apparently qualified. At least, in my sick head. I intended to carry on with hurt and comfort-y sequels with the Avengers and love and nurturing, but my mind kept returning to Alexander Pierce. Because nobody just wakes up one morning and says “It sure would be fun to take our unstoppable killing machine and make him play with stuffed animals,” probably.
> 
> Let me warn you right away that this is not a nice story. It is not about consensual age play or trust or affection; it’s about the systematic destruction of an already broken mind, and deriving pleasure from forcing someone to believe they want the indignities being forced upon them. Let me also make it clear that, while Pierce's daughter does appear in the story, **this is not a fic about incest.** I will discuss that more in the concluding author's note.
> 
> If you have never seen young Robert Redford, [take a look here.](http://www.wearysloth.com/Gallery/ActorsR/14391-2464.gif) The Soldier's reaction to Pierce in the opening section may be a bit confusing if you're not familiar with how he used to look.
> 
> Translations for the Latin will appear if you hover over the text. I also included the translations in the bottom author's note if you are reading this on a mobile or otherwise can't access the hover text.

**"You don't understand. Have you ever had someone take your brain and play? Take you out and stuff something else in? You know what it's like to be unmade?"**

\- Clint Barton, _The Avengers_

  


There are voices around the asset. 

“—won’t take long, will it? If we have to do it every time—” It is a male voice, smooth and low. The asset does not recognize it. 

“It’s a singular process, Mr. Secretary.” A woman’s voice. The asset doesn’t recognize that one either. “Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes—”

He is shivering. His body was numb from ice but now that sensation is returning, he is burning with cold. The asset’s eyes are shut; the world outside the cryo-tank is bright and loud and he is too overcome trying to regain functional temperature to bother with the rest of it. There is a hand on his face, gloved and without heat, and his eyes open, blinking to clear clouded vision. The woman—one of the doctors to help him out of the tank, now that he can see her—slaps at his cheek. It is contact meant to draw focus rather than inflict pain. It succeeds. 

“How’s that possible? I thought his memory was wiped after every mission.” 

The man’s voice. The asset moves his eyes toward the source of the words and his body is numb again. 

The asset is trained to note relevant details, but that is not what he’s doing. The man is white, broad-shouldered and blue-eyed, with hair that falls somewhere between red and blond. The asset sees all of this, but he does not perceive it. There is a distracting sensation when he looks at the man, a memory hovering just out of reach. The man is smiling. It is beautiful, and the asset wants to please him, wants to see that smile directed his way. 

He is not meant to want, but he cannot help himself. 

“Unnecessary details are wiped,” the doctor says. “His designers developed a way to imprint the information he needs to retain. Otherwise, he’d have to be retrained in combat and espionage every time he wakes. Soldier. Attention.” 

He straightens in the chair as the doctor nods to the beautiful man. When the man extends his right hand, the asset reaches out to take it even before the doctor can prompt him—“Soldier. Contact.”—and the touch is so warm against the asset’s freezing skin that he bites his lips to stifle a gasp. The other hand comes to rest on the back of his head, eyes meeting his own. It is dizzying. 

“ _Servā,_ ” the doctor mutters in his ear. He can feel the command scraping into his mind, deeper than the orders in English or Russian. 

“ _Servāverō_.” He will serve this man without hesitation or error. His eyes do not waver, though in his peripheral vision he can see the doctor tap the man’s shoulder. 

“Uh,” the man says, “Right. I am your master.” 

“I am your asset.” His voice is hoarse, throat thick and tight from the cold, but he answers without thought or hesitation. The asset’s eyes are warm as if from fatigue or an irritant, but there is a surge of adrenaline through him and he has never felt more content. 

“ _Mementō,_ ” the doctor commands and he can hear the memory forming, like etchings on glass. 

“ _Meminerō,_ ” the asset breathes. His gaze is fixed. He does not even blink. 

“Soldier. Release.” 

His hand wants to linger, but if it does he will be disobeying an order in front of his master. He lets go just as the hand at the back of his head slides away, his eyes still unmoving. His body is taut, awaiting a command, an opportunity to serve. 

“And that’s it?” his master asks. 

“That’s it.” 

“And it’s permanent?” 

The doctor pulls a restraint tight around the asset’s arm. “Allow me to demonstrate.” 

When the asset comes back to himself after the electricity, slumped against the chair, sweat cooling on his body and tremors rippling through him like an aftershock, his eyes fall on a face he thinks he knows. A hunger grows inside him and he reaches out with a trembling hand. 

The man smiles and when he does, the asset’s body stops aching. Their hands touch, and the man is so solid against his shaking and so warm that the asset gasps. There is a light in the man’s eyes at the sound and something like a shadow flits across his smile, but it is still beautiful. The asset will do whatever is asked of him without question and will hope as he does to see that smile again. 

*

His handler is always there when he wakes. His body is boneless right out of the tank, mind sluggish and disoriented, but when his master’s hand grasps his own, there is etching in his mind and he forces himself to focus. He does not quite remember the man upon waking, but he knows him nonetheless. 

When Pierce tells him he is good the asset almost remembers how to smile. When he punishes him the asset leans into the blows. Pierce is as much of a constant in the asset’s life as the ice, and he does not know how to function without either. 

The first time that he does not return to the chair directly after a mission, his master leads him to a hotel. He is dressed in civilian clothing and once the bellhop closes the door behind them, his handler touches both shoulders and lightly pins the asset to a wall. “You’re beautiful,” Pierce says, running his thumb across the asset’s lips. “You’re magnificent.” There is a flush of heat to the asset’s face at the praise and Pierce smiles. 

He always wears a gold band around the ring finger of his left hand, but Pierce slides it off now as he sits at the edge of the bed, beckoning for the asset to follow. He places it on the nightstand and guides the asset to kneel, head between his master’s knees. Through the fabric of his pants, the asset can see he is erect. 

“Suck my cock,” Pierce says softly, almost as if it is a question. 

The asset stares up through his eyelashes, a query on his lips he will not verbalize because he should already know what is wanted of him without clarification. 

His master frowns, then chuckles. “Seriously? You’ve never—what a waste.” He opens his fly, pulls himself out. “Don’t worry, you’ll learn. Here’s the first rule. Don’t take your eyes off of me, all right?” 

Why would he want to look anywhere else? 

*

The first time that he does not return to the chair directly after a mission, his master leads him to a hotel. Pierce slips a gold band from his finger as he sits at the edge of the bed and motions for the asset to follow. He is guided to kneel between his master’s legs, and as he does he observes that the man is aroused. 

“Suck my cock.” 

The asset stares up through his eyelashes, a question on his lips he will not verbalize because he should already know what is wanted of him. 

Pierce laughs. “Oh, right. Don’t worry, I’ll show you.” 

When the asset’s head is bobbing between his master’s legs, Pierce leans down and whispers “ _Mementō_ ” into his ear. 

“ _Meminerō._ ” The word is muffled around the length in his mouth, and over Pierce’s groan he can hear the memory scratching into his mind. 

*

The asset does not change between missions, but Pierce does. His clothing, the length of his hair, subtle fluctuations in his weight, the appearance of lines around his eyes and mouth. He is a constant but he is also mutable and if the asset thinks on that too long, his head begins to ache and his chest feels as though he is drowning. He tries not to think, only to obey and please. 

He remembers more of hotel rooms than he does of the missions he has been sent on. He has no way of knowing if he remembers them all—it is not his place to question the memories his master allows him to keep—but there is much the asset can pull to mind. Lips brushing his neck and face, curtains drawn, his head in Pierce’s lap, hands on his wrists as he lies on a bed, his master’s body above him. Sometimes, the asset remembers, afterward, Pierce would stroke his hair and tell him how perfect he was. 

That doesn’t happen anymore. 

He cannot say when their encounters shifted any more than he can point to the moment when he realized that Pierce ages. The asset does not sense time the way people do. Looking back, he can spot the trend but not the catalyst. There were times when Pierce would look at him and smile. Now he looks the way men on missions look when they have to sit and wait for hours before the asset takes a shot. 

There are no gentle touches or soft words. He learns to do without them, to content himself with whatever his master is willing to provide. Sometimes Pierce is rough, though the bruises never linger long enough to remain on the asset’s body into cryo. Sometimes there are weapons. Programmed to handle pain without complaint, the asset lies silent and watches as his master creates wounds. 

“Tell me you like it,” Pierce says after ordering him to fist himself with the metal hand. 

The tears on his lashes are a wholly involuntary, physical reaction; emotionally, the asset is a blank slate. “I like it.” 

His master sighs. “It’s no good if you don’t mean it.” 

But how can he mean it? Weapons do not like anything. 

There is not always pain. Once, the asset is made to wear stockings and heels. Another time, lipstick is spread on his mouth. He is called a slut, a little whore, and he watches as his master comes on his face. He is tied to a bed, made to wait hours and hours before there is release. He is tied to a bed and no climax is given. The size of his penis is mocked, though he has seen enough HYDRA agents in various states of undress after missions to know that he is average. Whatever the experience, Pierce is always watching, carefully scrutinizing the asset’s responses. And while his reactions are within the parameters of his programming—mostly he manages no reaction at all—his master never looks pleased. 

Until the night with the knife. 

Pierce guides him to the small closet of the hotel room, stands him on towels and binds his spread wrists to the clothing rod with their belts. The asset could break free but he has been instructed to be good, so he will not. His shirt is off. Pierce leans against him, chest pressing against his back, fingers of their left hands intertwining. His master wears a ring and it clinks against his metal digits. When the right hand appears in the asset’s vision, it holds a blade an inch from his eye. 

He doesn’t believe this is the first time his master has used knives. He remembers splatters of blood, obscene words carved into pale skin. But this knife catches his attention. It isn’t like the blades the asset uses for stabbing or slicing. 

It is a skinning knife. 

“ _Egē_ ,” his master whispers. 

His stomach flutters. “ _Egeō._ ” 

“Tell me you want it.” Pierce kisses his throat as he feels a flicker of pain at his back, skin slipping free from muscle. 

“I want it.” He does—he has to—but the adrenaline does not stop surging and the _scrape scrape_ of the knife brings tears to his eyes. It goes on forever, the knife at his back and the lips at his throat, the hand in his and the litany of “I want it, I want it” from his mouth. There is not much blood, but he can feel every drip down his skin. The asset goes cold, body slumping in its bonds, pulse fast and arrhythmic. His eyes are leaking, muscles trembling, and though he struggles to ground himself, he cannot remember anything beyond this room, this moment, this desired pain. The blade stills when he begins sobbing. 

“I w-want it,” he says, almost protests, when his master begins freeing his wrists. Through his tears he can see Pierce’s face, impassive as ever, and although the asset does not know why he’s failed, he clearly has and the crying does not stop. “I want it I’ll be good I want it I l-like it please don’t be angry I want it—”

His wrists are free and his legs give way, shaking form collapsing into his master’s arms. There is something new to Pierce’s expression, some sort of light, but the asset can’t focus, can’t keep the words from spilling out. His face burns; he should be better than this. “I’m sorry I want it I want it plea—”

“It’s all right, sweetheart.” His master pulls him close. A hand runs down one of the less mutilated portions of the asset’s back and he holds in a scream even as he presses into the touch. “You’re all right. You were almost perfect.” 

_Almost is never good enough,_ he thinks. But Pierce presses towels to his wounds and carries him to the bed, holding him tight. He strokes the asset’s hair, whispers that he’s all right, safe, good. It is the first time the asset can remember praise or softness and past the shame of his failure, he can feel some internal void filling. He still wants the knife—he must—but he wants this more, and the pain of the blade is bearable if this follows. 

*

There is no knife the next time. 

By then the asset does not remember the cutting, but there is still a pause when he walks by the closet, a flare of dread and desire that that passes when his master presses the rabbit into his hands. 

It is not a real rabbit; it is soft fabric and stuffing in the shape of a rabbit. It is also blue. The fabric is slightly matted, the ears worn as though someone has held onto them and dragged the rabbit around. He stares at the thing, unable to comprehend its purpose. “Thank you?” 

“Thank you, Daddy,” Pierce corrects. 

It feels wrong to say it; it is a child’s word and he is not a child. He is a weapon. But his master wants it so he repeats, “Thank you, Daddy” and tries not to sense the flush in his face as he does. 

Pierce smiles. He guides the asset to the bed and though his instinct is to kneel, Pierce instead maneuvers him to sit on his master’s lap. They remain that way for some time, with Pierce occasionally pressing a kiss to the asset’s face or running a hand down his hair. He has no memory of either sensation but relief floods through him as though an itch he’d come to ignore has finally been scratched. 

The hotel has room service and his master has them bring ice cream. “You’re really not supposed to eat this,” he says, slipping the spoon between the asset’s lips. “But you’ve been such a good boy, I think we can bend the rules.” 

“Thank you, Daddy.” 

When the dish is empty and he has licked every remnant of the ice cream from his master’s hand, Pierce gives him the hotel room’s notepad and ink pen and orders him to draw. He holds the rabbit in his left hand and with his right recreates the room on the paper, because he was not told what to draw and he has no imagination. His hair is stroked again when he finishes, though Pierce is now thinking instead of smiling.

Later they discover why the asset is not allowed to eat, when he spends a quarter of an hour with his head in the toilet. 

“Sorry, snowflake,” his master says after. The asset is lying on the bed with his head in Pierce’s lap while Pierce’s hand rubs circles against the asset’s stomach. “Daddy didn’t know.” 

The hand is soothing against the ache inside him. The asset does not speak, taking one hand off of the rabbit and intertwining his fingers with his master’s. 

*

Pierce gives him books on child development and communication. He says they are for a mission. The asset reads them over the course of an hour, committing the information to memory. When he is through, Pierce places a tape in the VCR and instructs the asset to watch. The video is old and amateur, shot in a home he realizes to be his master’s when he sees a younger Pierce walk in front of the camera. It is a birthday celebration for a little girl seated at a table with many other children gathered around her. She unwraps gifts; a blue, stuffed rabbit is among them. The girl is smiling and giggling and doesn’t fear punishment when she gets cake and ice cream all over herself. 

He is told his mission is to perfectly emulate a child, so he does. Rather than sit on the bed, he lies on his stomach, knees bent and feet swinging back and forth in the air. He is asked to draw and he makes the sky a thick, blue line across the top of the paper instead of extending it downward to fill all the negative space. He keeps the rabbit close at hand always and he is ordered to view his master as his daddy, which is easy because he already looks upon the man with unconditional trust. 

“ _Egē,_ ” Daddy says, petting at his hair. 

“ _Egeō._ ” His smile is wide and bright, an exact replica of the way the girl in the video grinned. 

Later, when they are on the bed and he is sitting in his daddy’s lap, he asks, “Tell me a story, please Daddy?” because the books said that storytelling is a crucial part of child development that fosters literacy, cultural values, and imaginative play. 

“What story do you want to hear?” Daddy asks, and he shrugs because he doesn’t know any stories. Daddy seems to realize that and laughs. His daddy sounds happy, so he is happy too. “Okay,” Daddy says. “I’ll make one up. Uh, once there was a little boy. Who was beautiful and, uh, brave and strong, but nobody noticed him.” 

He listens, rapt. 

“See, the boy…had a friend, a friend who took all the attention. Who was a bad influence and had the little boy help cause problems for the grown-ups who were trying to make their town a better place. And, uh, one day when they were doing that, the little boy got hurt and lost his arm, and his friend ran away without even helping. So…his daddy found him and saved his life and got him a new arm.” Daddy kisses the star on his shoulder. “And the little boy learned to listen to him and do as he said, and together they fixed all the problems his friend had caused. He became a hero and his daddy was very proud of him.” 

“That was the best story ever.” It is the only story he’s ever heard, but he thinks it would be true even if he knew any others because his daddy made it up just for him. “Thanks, Daddy.” 

Daddy kisses him again, this time on the forehead. “C’mere, you,” Daddy mutters against his skin, pulling him closer. His daddy’s hands are on his waistband, opening his pants. 

He reaches down to block him. “No.” 

There is a moment of silence. Daddy isn’t smiling anymore. “What do you mean, ‘no’?” He digs his fingers between the tendons of the asset’s wrist, earning a whimper. Little boys do not hide pain. 

“Children do not engage in sexual activities,” the asset says, because they don’t. The books said those behaviors do not begin until puberty. Perhaps this is a test of his knowledge. “They may masturbate as early as infancy and onward, but they don’t participate in—”

He is shoved off of the bed and onto the floor. Daddy removes his belt and imparts a lesson about obeying parents without question. When his hair is grabbed and he’s dragged back to the mattress, he does not struggle as his daddy’s hand slides beneath his waistband again. It doesn’t hurt. It feels really good, but his briefings for this mission stated he should have no role in this. He is bewildered. The part of him acting the child is overwhelmed and tears leak from his eyes. 

That earns the belt’s return and a lesson about how crying is a manipulation and good boys aren’t manipulative. 

Later, when he is in the bath and Daddy is rinsing out his hair, there is a command he doesn’t think he’s ever had before. Daddy holds his right hand, covered in soap bubbles, while Daddy’s left hand comes to rest tangled in his long, wet hair. “ _Amā._ ” 

The noise is not a quiet etching this time. It is a shriek, like cutting a hole into glass during an infiltration. _Love._ The asset does not know how to love; he can barely grasp the concept. But he cannot disobey. “ _A-amō._ ” 

“ _Mementō_ ,” Daddy says, and the glass shatters. 

“ _Meminerō_ , Daddy.” 

Daddy dries him off and brushes his hair. He lets him say goodbye to the rabbit and then takes him back to the facility to nap until Daddy needs him again. By the time they are ready to put him in the tank, he can hardly hear the shards scraping inside his skull. 

*

Eventually, a pattern is established. 

At first, when he and his Daddy are alone, there is more variety. There are games of hide and seek for a time—whenever he’s found, the game relocates to the bed—but even in the limited space, he’s too good at hiding and Daddy grows bored with it. Some encounters are purely sexual, some entirely chaste. Once Daddy sticks a pacifier in his mouth and watches him suck on it for a minute before shaking his head and taking it away. Sometimes they put stickers on the metal arm, but that stops because they’re too hard to clean off before he has to go home. 

He doesn’t consciously remember any of this from one encounter to the next, but once the pattern emerges he can follow the steps without the memory. Pierce wakes him and he serves as an asset. At some point, they are alone together and are daddy and child rather than master and weapon. During this time, there are stuffed animals. There are bubble baths and hair-brushing. Sometimes there are movies, or coloring books, or food in limited quantities so as not to cause sickness. He doesn’t mind the sickness so much if it means his daddy’s hand rubbing against his tummy after. There are stories and then he shows Daddy just how much he loves him. It’s their secret, Daddy impresses upon him, and he promises never to reveal it. He doesn’t want to share his daddy anyway. 

Then comes the mission in Slovenia. 

The asset performs perfectly as always, and eliminates the target without error. Those assigned to protect the asset while he is completing his mission do not perform flawlessly, and while he is not seriously injured by the grenade launched at them—his companions are killed, and good riddance—he is knocked unconscious. When he comes to, before opening his eyes, he feels a hand massaging at his scalp, a familiar voice he can’t quite place. 

“—not feeling anything major, don’t think we’ll need a medic. He should come around soon—”

He reaches a hand up, intertwines his fingers with those stroking through his hair. “Daddy.” 

There is silence. When his eyes open, Rumlow is staring down at him, his face a blend of confusion and concern, and he remembers that he is an asset but he remembers too late. 

“Get a medic,” Rumlow says finally, to someone the asset can’t see. “Now.” He remains kneeling beside the asset until the medic arrives and declares him fully functioning. 

It is reported upon return to the facility because anomalies are always reported. When he is taken to the chair later, the wipe seems to go on for a long, long time, long enough that he begins to think despite the pain. He thinks this is a lesson. Whether it is a lesson in exclusivity or discretion, he doesn’t know. 

*

One day he wakes and his master is not there. 

In his place is the strike team. The asset cannot remember if this has ever happened before. He follows Rumlow without hesitation—the man is his commanding officer and he is not programmed to ask questions—but his mind drifts to his master, a rapid fluttering in his stomach that he cannot name. No one offers him information, of course. But he listens and while they are in transit, he catches a name that he thinks is his handler’s. 

“—Pierce’s wife,” Rollins says. “Do they know how long?” 

“Not more than a couple days.” Rumlow’s voice is soft and the asset must strain to hear it. “They say it’s spread to her spine now.” 

The asset thinks of a ring without know why he pictures it. He does not hear his master’s name again and he turns his thoughts back to the mission. 

Five days later, when the mission is complete, they return to the facility and Pierce is there. He moves as if he carries a great weight about him and as the asset trails after him, people along the halls stop to offer condolences. His master thanks them. He does not speak to the asset at all, only leads him to a car. 

When they are inside he is grabbed, pulled halfway out of the passenger seat and into Pierce’s arms. Daddy doesn’t say anything, just holds so tight it aches everywhere that isn’t metal. His daddy’s eyes are rimmed with red. They stay that way for a long time before Daddy lets go and turns the keys in the ignition. 

Daddy doesn’t speak while he drives. Sometimes Daddy sighs from deep within and each time he does, his body sinks a little more. From the passenger seat, he watches just as silently. Has Daddy always looked so old? 

They stop at a big house made of mostly windows and Daddy takes his right hand and guides him inside. “This is really pretty,” he says. There are flowers everywhere. Daddy doesn’t answer and he wonders if he said the wrong thing. Is he is supposed to remember this place? 

Some of the flowers have cards beside them. They say words like “sympathy” and “passing” and “peace.” They stand in the entryway for ages, but he does not fidget because he’s being good. 

“You want some milk?” Daddy asks, voice tight. 

He nods. He can’t remember ever having milk but Daddy isn’t happy and Daddy wants to give it to him, and if drinking it could make Daddy smile, then he will. 

They move into a kitchen. He takes the glass in his right hand, because the left hand is cold and rigid and Daddy doesn’t like it. “Thank you, Daddy,” he says and sips. He hardly tastes it; he is busy watching his daddy and hoping to cheer him up. He lowers the glass slightly away from his mouth when Daddy doesn’t respond, tries to think of something that always makes his daddy smile. “I love you, Da—”

The glass is ripped from his hand and shattered against the table. Jagged bits of glass and liquid strike the floor, splashing against his boots. He cannot respond, cannot even open his mouth to apologize before Daddy grabs his hair, tugging his head back. The broken points of the glass half that Daddy still holds are shoved against his lips. 

“You don’t know what love _is_ ,” Daddy hisses. 

He does not cry. Blood trickles around the shards and into his mouth, down his chin. 

“You worthless little idiot. You don’t age. You don’t _feel_. You don’t even know what you’ve lost to miss it. And you think that you can love? You think it’s not an insult that you try?” 

Daddy is driving the glass deeper when, down the hallway, the front door opens. 

“Dad?” A woman’s voice. He thinks of cake and ice cream, though he can’t remember why. 

Daddy puts the glass on the table and shoves him toward a pantry door. “Hide and seek,” he whispers, then turns and steps into the hall without a glance back. “Honey? I thought you went back to the hotel.” 

“I did, but I—it wasn’t—I didn’t want to be alone.” 

He slides into the pantry, silent, closes the door just as quietly after him. Blood drips from his face and he moves his hand to catch it, to keep from messing up Daddy’s floor. 

“I miss her, Dad.” The woman sounds as if she is crying. 

“Oh, baby. I do too.” 

They don’t talk much. There are long periods of silence between their words and when the woman leaves Daddy sighs again, deep as before. He can hear when his daddy comes back into the kitchen and cleans up the glass, but the pantry door does not open so he stays still. He does not cry. That’s important. 

In the morning, when the blood is dry on his face and the quiet is interrupted by an alarm clock, the door creaks open. He looks at Daddy, who is wearing a bathrobe and pajamas, with his hair sticking out every which way. Daddy’s face looks the way he feels when he is an asset and given an unfavorable weapon he must make do with. 

“I’m sorry I made you sad, Daddy.” Blood flakes from his lips when he speaks. 

Daddy’s smile is small and does not quite reach his eyes, but he is smiling and that is probably a good sign. “Do you want to make it up to Daddy, little one?” 

What he wants is for his daddy to be really, truly smiling. He will be a good boy and do whatever is asked of him if it means seeing Daddy smile again. “Yes, Daddy.” 

Daddy leads him to the bedroom and he is being given the opportunity to behave and make up for his mistake, so he is grinning every step of the way.

**Author's Note:**

> [Eleke](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eleke/pseuds/Eleke) made some beautiful art of the bunny (and also Bucky Bear) that you can see [here.](http://imgur.com/a/BPUGr)
> 
> Giving the Winter Soldier his daughter's rabbit and showing him the video of her birthday is not, in my mind, an attempt on Pierce's part to act out a fantasy regarding his daughter through the Soldier. I imagine they are estranged and Pierce misses her, but not that he has any sexual interest in his child. He had his daughter's belongings still lying around and decided to use them. His interest is in humiliating and dominating something so powerful, and making the Soldier believe that he wants it as well. As demonstrated in story, the Soldier cannot be humiliated or shamed through pain or mockery, but the removal of his competency to care for himself, combined with what the Soldier perceives as love, can achieve it. Any sort of vicarious parent/child bonding that results from his use of the asset is secondary to his original goal.
> 
> This is also why the infantilism didn't take: if one ordered the Soldier to act like an infant, he would do it so well he would cease higher cognitive functioning, so there could be no humiliation there.
> 
> Translations for the Latin are as follows:
> 
> Servā = Serve  
> Servāverō = I shall serve  
> Mementō = Remember  
> Meminerō = I shall remember  
> Egē = Need  
> Egeō = I need  
> Amā = Love  
> Amō = I love

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Burnt Up Temple](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4628289) by [Musings_of_a_Monster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musings_of_a_Monster/pseuds/Musings_of_a_Monster)
  * [Demurral](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7452715) by [OMOWatcher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OMOWatcher/pseuds/OMOWatcher)
  * [GII.4](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8087227) by [OMOWatcher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OMOWatcher/pseuds/OMOWatcher)
  * [A Matter of Penguins](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12168531) by [Jersey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jersey/pseuds/Jersey)




End file.
